The Chelsea Murders (20 page)

I
N
the night, the telex began chattering from Munich. There wasn’t enough in it for the duty officer to disturb Warton, but an early call went to him in the morning, and he drove briskly to Chelsea.

Nellie Heemskerk had been located. Further details would be supplied as soon as possible. The details began coming in as soon as he entered the Incident Room, and he sat by the machine
himself
, watching the words appearing on the paper.

The English was rather odd, but the sense admirably clear and methodical. Nellie Heemskerk was registered at the Munich Academy of Art. Delay in locating her was because she had gone into religious retreat for the week of Advent; she was in a small convent at the nearby village of Nymphenburg.

HAVE YOU QUESTIONED HER
? Warton typed.

The machine purred and chattered back.
PRESENTLY NOT. CONVENT SILENT FUR ADVENTWOCHE. IF URGENT MUST TRY MUTTER.

‘Mutter?’ Warton said, scowling.

‘Maybe they whisper there,’ Summers suggested.

‘I think, sir,’ Mason said, and coughed.

‘Eh?’ Warton turned and peered up at him. ‘I thought you were on night turn, lad.’

‘Just off it, sir. I think
Mutter
is German for Mother. Mother Superior.’

‘Ng.’ Warton got busy with two fingers. He punched out:
MUCH OBLIGED. PLEASE TELL MUTTER MATTER
… He scratched his head and started agan.
PLEASE TELL MUTTER THE MATTER IS LIFE OR DEATH. MUST KNOW IF HEEMSKERK HAS LETTERS FROM DEAD GIRL GROOT.

The machine purred a moment and responded.
UNDER - STOOD. WILL TRY MUTTER AND ADVISE YOU.

‘Efficient coppers there,’ Warton said, with some satisfaction, tearing off the paper roll for filing. ‘Look at this, Summers.
Passport
number, place and date of birth … Religious retreat, eh?’

He noticed that Summers was not looking at him. A slight disturbance had broken out at the far end of the Incident Room where the postal clerks were sitting. He saw a postman standing there, and went swiftly over.

They were just opening it, using Kleenex sheets. It was addressed to Murder HQ.

Warton stared at the contents, and then at Summers.

All as before: cartridge paper, four lines of Letraset Gothic.

‘Why, that’s Belloc’s!’ Mason said.

‘Now then, Mason!’ said Summers, in some surprise, having misheard the vowel.

‘Hilaire Belloc. The poet. I’m sure of it.’

In Warton’s room, they swiftly checked. Belloc’s it was:

Warton was silent for some time.

‘Get the cards,’ he said, at last.

There were no gaps in the cards this time. H.B. immediately became flesh as Mrs Hester Bulstrode. Her cards produced several other cards. All concerned the inflammation risk of a boiler on the premises.

Frank’s premises.

‘Damn it, he can’t get much nearer the wind!’ said Summers.

Warton brooded a long time.

‘I am not pulling him in,’ he said. ‘I am not! The Yard can go and take a running –’

He heard Summers coughing, and looked up to find him glancing significantly at Mason.

‘Okay, lad. Get off,’ Warton said.

‘If there’s anything I can –’

‘Get off.’ His head was down, menacingly low.

After Mason had gone, he said, ‘Where was it posted?’

‘New King’s Road, sir. Not a hundred yards from his house.’

‘When?’

‘After four. That was the last collection.’

‘And the tails went on at five, eh?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Timing, you see,’ Warton said. ‘Well, Jesus Christ.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Playing with us. Wants us to pull him in. Why?’

Summers blew down his pipe.

‘I am bloody not doing it,’ Warton said with soft violence. ‘End of the day, he’ll be laughing at us … Where is he?’

‘Got a lecture at the art school this morning, sir.’

‘Check the house, then. Use the earlier complaint.’

‘And inform the Yard?’

Warton quietly swore. ‘Tell them, and the decision’s not ours.’

‘It doesn’t have to be this charge, sir. There’s the marijuana.’

‘I know it. So does he … What the hell is he playing at?’

He stared hard at the few lines of type, trying to will the meaning.

‘He’s got something going, Summers. Pull him in, and it will happen then.’

‘Can’t leave the old lady at risk, sir.’

‘He’s figured that … Anything with the bloody landladies?’

‘Not yet, sir. It’s still early.’

Warton sat hunched and smouldering.

‘We’re being crowded, Summers. Being directed into this.’ He could see the slug on the soil, and his own finger directing it to the bait. ‘It’s a fix. And just when things are going for us. Well, goddam it – if he tries to go back, take him in. Have to.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Meanwhile give Munich a nudge every hour. And watch the bloody mail. There’s a landlady somewhere, Summers.’

‘Somewhere,’ Summers said.

All morning he watched the mail, and sent a party to the house, and every hour gave Munich a nudge; and to his relief
was not prodded into action on the Colbert-Greer front. After his lecture Frank went to the British Museum; and the boiler turned out to be in perfect condition, and Munich grew
increasingly
irritable at the nudges.

Late in the day they came up with information, however.

‘Morgen, eh?’ Warton said. ‘Well, he’ll stay here till Morgen.’

Frank was below in the lockup. At five o’clock he’d tried to go home. Scotland Yard had been informed. Marijuana was the charge. He didn’t seem unhappy.

That was the situation at seven o’clock when Mooney found the room.

She couldn’t all at once believe it. It was Tuesday, her late day, and she’d raced through it to start again. Right away, at the very first house, Sevastopol Street, it had happened. She’d been there twice already, without raising the landlady, a Mrs Ruddle. She didn’t raise her this time, either. An old fellow with a pipe, evidently Ruddle, came to the door.

‘I was wondering,’ Mooney said, ‘if the room was still
available
.’

Ruddle took his pipe out. ‘Well, you’re quick,’ he said. ‘Did you get it from the card?’

The card took a minute or two to work out. He’d apparently put one in the window of a local newsagent’s that morning.

The Biffy routine took longer.

‘Biffy?’ he said and stared at her. ‘Would that be Mr Freer, then? … Skinny chap, glasses, pops in and out.’

‘It could be,’ Mooney said, with her heart lurching. ‘Is he – is he in
now
?’

The man glanced briefly down the passage, apparently at a
fanlight
, before turning back. ‘No, he’s gone. Went yesterday.’

‘Yesterday! Was he the – did he apply for the room after an advert in the
Gazette
, three or four weeks ago?’

‘That’s right. He didn’t use it much, but –’

‘Can I come in?’ Mooney said.

‘We’re a bit untidy. The wife’s ill, and –’

‘What –’ flu?’ Mooney said, sympathetically prodding him inside. ‘And looking after yourself, I expect, poor man.’

‘Well, I am, but –’

‘Oh, this is nice. Homely,’ Mooney said, looking around with approval at the fairly stinking little hovel. Rotting antlers abounded on discoloured walls.

‘
Who is it
?’ gurgled an old voice from above.

‘For the room!’

‘
Well, tell them – tell them
–’ came the voice before
subsiding
into a terrible fit of sneezing.

‘It’s not convenient now,’ the old chap said.

‘But since I’m here,’ Mooney said, ‘I’d just love a peep.’

‘You see, it’s not actually –’

‘
Fred – tell them – tell them –
’

‘You keep quiet, Mother! I’ll be up. Anyway, it’s gone,’ he told Mooney, ‘so there isn’t any point.’

‘Gone? But you just put the card in,’ Mooney said.

‘I shouldn’t have done. The wife had took a deposit, which I didn’t know. Came in the post. And now the letter’s gone off, and we have the cheque, so it wouldn’t be right.’

‘But I’m
here
,’ Mooney said indignantly. ‘And what’s a
deposit
? He probably sent twenty others. That cheque could be stopped by now.’

‘Eh?’

‘Easily. There’s a lot of it going on.’

‘But – it’s untidy, anyway, what with the wife –’

‘I could have a
peep
, couldn’t I, get an idea? Which one is it, first along?’

‘No. Second. But I –’

‘
Fred – Fred – tell them it’s – it’s –
’

‘You keep still, Mother!’

You bloody freeze, Mother
, Mooney silently advised. ‘What – this one?’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Oh, it’s just right,’ Mooney said, briskly opening the door and switching on the light. And so it was. The first glimpse, the first
sniff, had told her. A faint sweetish smell hovered about the place, with something rather cloying and acrid behind it. The room had been left in a hurry, a door of the rickety wardrobe ajar, one drawer of a lopsided chest still open. The bed was made up but apparently unused.

‘Just like him. Always in a hurry. Popped in and out, did he?’

‘Yes. Funny customer. His room, of course, so he could do what he liked with it, but – Oh, sorry. Your friend.’

‘No. He
is
funny,’ Mooney said firmly. ‘I wouldn’t even know how to describe him. How would you?’

‘Well, he didn’t sleep here, so I never met him.’

‘But your wife’s surely –’

‘
Fred – Fred!
’ came the old gurgle, now in considerable rage. ‘
I want
you – I want –
’

‘You see, it isn’t convenient now,’ Fred said.

‘Well, I’ll just jot my name and address,’ Mooney said, ‘while you see what she wants. I’ll be all right here.’

‘Well, I –’

‘Is there a lemon in the house?’

‘A what?’

‘Her throat. I can hear it. Or tea with a spot of something in it. No milk. See if she wants it. I’ll be here.’

‘Look, I don’t want to be rude –’

‘
Fred – are you – are you – bloody
deaf,
Fred? I want –
’

‘You’ll have her up all night, you know,’ Mooney said, pursing her lips and shaking her head, ‘unless you see to her, For goodness’ sake.’ She had begun slowly writing Mrs Tizack’s name and Mrs Thatcher’s address.

Fred was looking somewhat flummoxed as he set off in the direction of the bronchial explosions. Mooney set off on a rapid circuit of the room.

Wardrobe empty. Chest of drawers empty. Nothing under the pillow, mattress, or bed. The acrid element in the smell seemed to come from below a small table near the curtained window. A small metal bin stood there. There was ashtray rubbish and burnt paper in it.

She looked rapidly about for something to pour it into. There was nothing in the room, so she swiftly opened her handbag,
and just at the last moment paused. A few sizeable bits of paper were at the bottom of the bin, parts of a sheaf that had been torn in quarters and burnt; not evidently thoroughly enough. She picked out fragments that came whole and had them in her bag by the time the footsteps returned.

Fred was in a tougher frame of mind on returning.

‘You’d better go now,’ he said. ‘And the milkman cashed that cheque, same time as he took the letter to the post for the wife, so no problem there. If you want to leave a name and address you can. But they go like hot cakes, these rooms, so a deposit would be better.’

Mooney said she thought she’d just leave her name and
address
; and inside a couple of minutes was pedalling home. The few words she’d made out on the paper indicated that Fred’s lodger was a funny customer indeed.

She put the fragments together on the kitchen table and sat and pored over them. A large irregular hole had been burnt out of the middle, but the drift was clear enough: